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SONGS AND SATIRES 



SONGS AND SATIRES 



BY 



y 



JAMES JEFFREY ROCHE 



The foam-flakes that dance on life's shallows 
Are wrung from life's deep." 





BOSTON 
TICKNOR AND COMPANY 
1887 



N-^^ 



.64 



Copyright, 1886, 
By Ticknor and Company. 



All rights reserved. 



tSntberstta Press: 
John Wilson and Son, Cambridge. 



TO 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 



My very good friend, and an honorable gentleman." 

Shakespeare. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Persepolis II 

The Way of the World 13 

For the People 14 

Netchaieff 17 

Hubert the Hunter 19 

Egypt 24 

The Water-lily 26 

King Mob 27 

The Corporal's Letter 30 

Edelweiss 33 

Self-Righteous 34 

Sergeant Molly 36 

The Grave of Captain Hall 38 

Charles Dickens 40 

When my Ship comes Home 42 

Spots on the Sun 44 

The Song of the Sea 46 

Babylon 48 

The Flag 50 

My Comrade 53 



viii CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

Andromeda 54 

Partant pour la Syrie 55 

The Gospel of Peace 57 

The Skeleton at the Feast 59 

The V-a-s-e 63 

A Sailor's Yarn 65 

A Concord Love-song 69 

Frozen Out 71 

Enigma 74 

If 76 

A Title Clear 77 

The Preadamite 80 

To T. D 82 

The Spectre Muleteer 84 

" School Keeps " 88 

The Dollar of our Fathers 90 

What the Telegraph said 92 

The Fo'ks'le 93 

"Don't" 96 

The Twin Relic 97 

My PTated Rival loi 

Ad Lydiam 102 

On Re-reading T^il^maque 103 



SONGS. 




SONGS 



PERSEPOLIS. 



ELLOW the sand on the palace floor, 
Heavy the dust on column and wall ; 
Without, the jackal's sycophant call 
Echoes the lion's angry roar. 




Trespassers we on a king's domain. 
Who chafes outside in his royal rage 
Patience, your Majesty, while a page 

Of history we peruse again. 



Here was a mighty monarch's throne ; 
There was the altar men raised to him, 
Where the bones of beasts lie white and grim 

How the servile knees have worn the stone ! 



12 SOjVGS. 



Here is his statue, but all defaced 
His royal, features beyond recall ; 
And prone it lies in the dust and all, 

From its lofty pedestal displaced. 

Time, sweeping by with his noiseless wings, 
Swept off the date and the mighty name. 
Only three words remain to fame : 

Somebody once was a " king of kings." 






THE WAY OF THE WORLD. 

HE hands of the King are soft and fair; 
They never knew labor's stain. 
The hands of the Robber redly wear 
The bloody brand of Cain. 
But the hands of the Man are hard and scarred 
With the scars of toil and pain. 

The slaves of Pilate have washed his hands 

As white as a king's may be. 
Barabbas with wrists unfettered stands, 

For the world has made him free. 
But thy palms toil-worn by nails are torn, 

O Christ, on Calvary I 





FOR THE PEOPLE. 

E are the hewers and delvers who toil for 
another's gain, — 
The common clods and the rabble, stunted 
of brow and brain. 
What do we want, the gleaners, of the harvest we 

have reaped ? 
What do we want, the neuters, of the honey we 
have heaped? 

We want the drones to be driven away from our 

golden hoard ; 
We want to share in the harvest ; we want to sit at 

the board ; 
We want what sword or suffrage has never yet won 

for man, — 
The fruits of his toil God promised when the curse 

of toil began. 

Ye have tried the sword and sceptre, the cross and 

the sacred word, 
In all the years, and the kingdom is not yet here of 

the Lord. 



FOR THE PEOPLE. 1 5 

Is it useless, all our waiting ? Are they fruitless, all 
our prayers ? 

Has the wheat, while men were sleeping, been over- 
sowed with tares ? 

What gain is it to the people that a God laid down 
his hfe, 

If, twenty centuries after, his world be a world of 
strife ? 

If the serried ranks be facing each other with ruth- 
less eyes, 

And steel in their hands, what profits a Saviour's 
sacrifice ? 

Ye have tried, and failed to rule us ; in vain to direct 

have tried. 
Not wholly the fault of the ruler, not utterly bhnd 

the guide ; 
Mayhap there needs not a ruler, mayhap we can 

find the way. 
At least ye have ruled to ruin, at least ye have led 

astray. 

What matter if king or consul or president holds the 

rein, 
If crime and poverty ever be links in the bondman's 

chain ? 
What careth the burden-bearer that Liberty packed 

his load. 
If Hunger presseth behind him with a sharp and 

ready goad ? 



1 6 SONGS. 



There 's a serf whose chains are of paper ; there 's a 

king with a parchment crown ; 
There are robber knights and brigands in factory, 

field, and town. 
But the vassal pays his tribute to a lord of wage and 

rent ; 
And the baron's toll is Shylock's, with a flesh-and- 

blood per cent. 

The seamstress bends to her labor all night in a 

narrow room ; 
The child, defrauded of childhood, tiptoes all day 

at the loom. 
The soul must starve, for the body can barely on 

husks be fed ; 
And the loaded dice of a gambler settle the price of 

bread. 

Ye have shorn and bound the Samson and robbed 

him of learning's light ; 
But his sluggish brain is moving, his sinews have 

all their might. 
Look well to your gates of Gaza, your privilege, 

pride, and caste ! 
The Giant is blind and thinking, and his locks are 

growing fast. 




NETCHAIEFF. 



[Netchaieff, a Russian Nihilist, was condemned to prison for 
life. Deprived of writing materials, he allowed his finger-nail to 
grow until he fashioned it into a pen. With this he wrote, in his 
blood, on the margins of a book, the story of his sufferings. 
Almost his last entry was a note that his jailer had just boarded up 
the solitary pane which admitted a little light into his cell. The 
" letter written in blood " was smuggled out of prison and pub- 
lished, and Netchaieff died very soon after. He had been ten years 
in his dungeon.] 



lETCHAIEFF is dead, your Majesty. 

You knew him not. He was a common hind, 
^' Who lived ten years in hell, and then he 
died — 
To seek another hell, as we must think. 
Since he was rebel to your Majesty. 

Ten years ! The time is long, if only spent 
In gilded courts and palaces like thine. 
E'en courtiers, courtesans, and gilded moths 
That flutter round a throne find weary hours 
And days of ennui. But Netchaieff 
Counted the minutes through ten dragging years 
Of pain. His soul was God's ; his body man's, 
To chain and maim and kill : and he is dead. 
Yet something left he that you cannot kill, — 
The story of his hell, writ in his blood : 



1 8 SONGS. 



Plebeian blood, base, ruddy, yet in hue 

And substance just such blood as once we saw 

Baptizing the Ekatrinofsky road : 

And that blood was your sainted sire's, the same 

That fills your veins, and would your face suftuse 

Did ever tyrant know the way to blush. 

The tale ? But to what end repeat 
A thrice-told tale ? Netchaieff is dead. 
Ten thousand others live. Go view their lives : 
See the wan captive in his narrow cell ; 
Mark the shrunk frame and shoulders bowed and 

bent. 
The thin hand trembling, shading blinded eyes 
From unaccustomed light ; the fettered limbs. 
The shuffling tread, and furtive look and start. 
Bid the dank walls give up the treasured groans 
The proud lips still withheld from mortal ear ; 
Ask of the slimy stones what they have seen. 
And shrank to see, polluted with the blood 
Of martyred innocence, — youth linked to age, 
And both to death ; the matron and the maid 
Prey to the slaver's lust and driver's whip ; 
All gladly welcoming the silent cell 
And vermin's company, less vile than man's. 

See these and these in twice a score of hells. 
And faintly guess what horrors lie behind 
That you can never see ; and you shall guess 
Why we rejoice that Netchaieff is dead : 
Kings cannot harm the dead. 




HUBERT THE HUNTER. 

ORD HUBERT lived, long years ago, 
In good King Pepin's reign, 
The lightest heart and heaviest hand 
In all broad Aquitain. 



He loved his home, he loved his king, 

He loved a winsome face, 
He loved right well his noble self; 

But better loved the chase. 

The foremost in the knightly joust, 

The first in hunting train ; 
The bravest brand in all the land 

Was crossed with his in vain. 

Small favorites with Hubert bold 
Were bookish clerk and priest ; 

And sore he chafed when sport was barred 
By frequent fast and feast. 

'T was in the blessed Lenten time, 

The holiest week of all ; 
The silence of the Day of Woe 

Fell like a funeral pall. 



20 SONGS. 



No joy-bell rang, no light was there, 
Nor sight or sound of mirth ; 

The sadness of the Sacrifice 
Was on the mourning earth. 

By holy men in penance garb 
The shrouded cross was borne, 

When o'er the hill rang loud and shrill 
A merry bugle-horn. 

The baying of a hound was heard 

Along the distant road ; 
With bow and spear and hunting gear 

Lord Hubert reckless strode. 

With mock obeisance spake the knight 
" Good father, ban me not ; 

No saint nor Pharisee am I, 
But sinful man, God wot. 

" But deeds of grace may wash out sin — 
I pledge a hunter's word, 
The fattest buck in gloomy Hartz 
This night shall grace thy board." 

Then answered mild the holy man : 
" Forbear the wanton crime 

Of him who sheddeth sinless blood 
In holy Easter time. 



HUBERT THE HUNTER. 21 

• An erring servant of the Lord 

Nor ban nor curse may say, 
But may the gentle Christ forgive 

Thy foul affront, I pray." 

The town is passed ; the forest deep 

Is still and cold and gray ; 
So silent, you might deem the brutes 

Revered the sacred day. 

Now deeper, deeper grows the wood. 

And darker grows the gloom ; 
And deathly chills assault the heart, 

Like breezes from the tomb. 

The broken twig hangs motionless. 

The budding leaf is still ; 
The sunless winter of the North 

Is not more dark and chill. 

Lord Hubert bore the stoutest heart 

In all broad Aquitain, 
Yet, but for very shame, had wished 

Him fairly home again. 

■ Good faith ! " he cried, " the holy man 

Shall venison lack to-day ; " 
When lo ! before his startled gaze 

A quarry stood at bay. 



22 SO.VGS. 



Stout Hubert drew a deadly shaft, — 
His aim was true and keen ; 

And fairer mark a hunter's skill 
Had seldom found, I ween. 

He drew the arrow to the head, — 
His aim was keen and true ; 

Then sudden fell the bow and shaft. 
And fell stout Hubert too. 

For mid the branching antlers there. 

Upon a forehead white. 
The symbol of the gentle Christ 

Was marked in dazzhng light. 

At holy cross on beastly front 
The huntsman pressed the sod. 

And heard, like him of Israel, 
The accents of a God. 



The joy-bells rang on Easter morn ; 

The good folk held the feast, 
And watched the conscious rising sun 

Dance gladly in the East. 

Lord Hubert knelt in humbled heart, 
And prayed for grace to teach 

The lesson taught by Heaven to him 
Through brute's inspired speech : 



HUBERT THE HUNTER. 23; 

That gentle sport in season meet 

Awakes not Heaven's wrath ; 
But woe the wretch for sinless Hfe 

Who no compassion hath ; 

That bird and beast are in His care, 

Whose lives are but a span, 
And he that wastes ofifendeth God, 

Who gave the breath to man. 

And honest sportsmen evermore 

Are merciful indeed ; 
For good Saint Hubert blesseth him 

Who heeds his gentle creed. 





EGYPT. 

SHORT arc bounds the limit of our sight ; 
With level gaze we scan the earthly floor, 
And all our skill shows not an inch beyond 

The vista of our seventy inches height. 

The bounded deep to us is never more 

Than the horizon of a narrow pond. 

The future lies beyond the rounded rim ; 

The present beats before our puny feet ; 

The past was washed out on the morning tide ; — 

Past, Present, Future are as one to Him 

Who bids the wave advance, be still, retreat. 

And mercifully doth the future hide. 

The sad-eyed Sphinx has seen the cycles roll. 

The pyramids arise, and nations fall, 

The mighty deeds of kings inscribed with pain 

Lost in the glory of a keyless scroll, 

Rubbed by the very dust from sculptured wall — 

Graving and wall to dust resolved again. 



EGYPT. 



25 



Deep was thy guilt, O Egypt, when the Lord 
In anger smote thee with a heavy hand. 
Thy pleasant waters turned to blood, and sent 
O'er all thy land the crawling things abhorred. 
Darkened thy skies with winged venom, and 
In night and blood the crowning punishment. 

Thou hast beheld the mighty come and go ; 
Greek, Roman, Moslem, in successive tide 
Sweep o'er thee, triumph, shudder, and depart, — 
Sad eldest-born of earth and heir of woe, 
Prometheus of nations, death-denied, 
The vultures ever at thy living heart. 

What is thy crime, O Egypt, now, that God 
Such retribution on thy head should send. 
Than His ten plagues tenfold more fraught with woe ? 
Ask of the stony Sphinx whose vision broad 
Has seen the stubborn pride of Pharaoh bend. 
And Gordon's crumble as the sands below. 





THE WATER-LILY. 

N the slimy bed of a sluggish mere 
Its root had humble birth, 
And the slender stem that upward grew 
Was coarse of fibre and dull of hue, 
With nought of grace or worth. 

The gelid fish that floated near 

Saw only the vulgar stem. 
The clumsy turtle paddling by, 
The water snake with his lidless eye, — 

It was only a weed to them. 

But the butterfly and the honey-bee, 

The sun and sky and air. 
They marked its heart of virgin gold 
In the satin leaves of spotless fold, 

And its odor rich and rare. 

So the fragrant soul in its purity, 

To sordid life tied down, 
May bloom to Heaven, and no man know, 
Seeing the coarse vile stem below, 

How God hath seen the crown. 




KING MOB. 

OT in the down-trod, slavish East, 
Where king is god, and subject beast, 
Where thousands starve that one may feast 
On the plenty wrung from slavery ; 
Not where the Czar o'er miUions rules, 
Or Sultan grinds time-serving fools, 
Or Chinese despot reigns with tools 
Of priest-craft, fraud, and knavery, — 

Not there the foulest despots reign ; 
No tyrant's serf e'er forged his chain, 
Or freedom vilely sold for gain ; 

Such shame is not base-born. 
To us reserved the double shame. 
Free-born to stain fair Freedom's fame. 
Our fetters gilding with her name. 

Herself our worthless scorn. 

Our monarch claims no right divine ; 
No royal blood, no noble line. 
Nor bold usurper's deeds define 
His patent right of ruling. 



28 SONGS. 



By vulgar fraud, transparent guile, 
Ill-gotten wealth, corruption vile, 
Nor least by Worth's indiff rence, while 
Disdaining ballot-schooling. 

By such, a tyrant mean and base. 
Coward as all of tyrant race. 
Freedom's shame and Man's disgrace. 

Lives Mob, who rules the City ; 
Where triumphs Fraud, as Justice sleeps. 
And Vice her shameless revels keeps. 
And Death from Vice his harvest reaps, 

Unchecked of ill-timed pity. 

Who, watching manhood's progress, spies. 
Look though he may with partial eyes. 
Foul License wear fair Freedom's guise. 

And timid Virtue cower. 
As shrinks the serf from lash's sting, 
In dread of Mob, the unclean thing — 
Slave, self-elected, of the Ring, 

And "manhood suffrage " power, — 

Who, seeing this, as all men see 
The rotten fruit of freedom's tree. 
Yet keeps his faith in manhood, he 

With boundless faith is gifted. 
And he is right ! For manhood still. 
Though stained with wrong and tutored ill. 
Its noble mission must fulfil. 

To higher things uplifted. 



KING MOB. 29 



As shrinks the night when morning breaks, 
As thief in sight of gallows quakes, 
So trembles Guilt when Justice wakes ; 

So Mob dethroned will falter, 
When o'er Corruption's teeming field 
Justice and Right the sickle wield, 
To reap the sheaves of rankest yield 

And bind them with a halter. 




* 





THE CORPORAL'S LETTER. 

HEN the sword is sheathed and the cannon 
hes 
Dumb and still on the parapet, 
For the spider to weave his silken net 
And the doves to nest in its silent mouth ; 
When the manly trade declines and dies, 
And hearts shrink up in ignoble drouth, 
When pitiful peace reigns everywhere, 
What is left for old Corporal Pierre ? 

Nought remains for an honest wight, 

But to write for bread, as the poets do, 

Beggarly scrawls for paltry sous. 

The billet-doux and the angry dun 

To the writing-machine are all as one. 

What matter the word or sentiment? 

If the fee be paid he is well content. 

To have heart in one's trade, ah ! one must fight. 

" M'sieu, if you please," and a timid hand 

Is laid on the soldier's threadbare sleeve. 

Pierre was bearish that day, I grieve 

To say, and his speech was curt, 

As will happen when want or old wounds hurt — 



THE CORPORAL'S LETTER. 31 

" I wish you to write a letter, please." 

" All right. Ten sous." But the little boy 

Has turned away. " Morbleu ! Well, then, 

You have n't the money ? You think that pen 

And ink and paper grow on trees ? 

Halt 1 Can't a soldier his joke enjoy 

But you must flare up ? I understand. 

" A begging letter, of course. And who 

Shall be favored to-day ? Dictate — ' M'sieu ' " — 

"Pardon. 'T is not 'M'sieu.' Madame, 

La Sainte Vierge." The writer stopped, 

And the pen from his trembhng fingers dropped ; 

The desk was shut with an angry slam. 

" Sapristi ! You Httle rascal, you 

Would jest with the Holy Virgin too? " 

But the child was weeping, and old Pierre 
Suppressed his wrath and indulged a stare. 
" My mother, M'sieu, she sleeps so long, 
These two whole days, and the room is cold. 
And she will not awake. It is very wrong, 
I know, for a boy to be afraid 
When a boy is as many as five years old. 
But I was so hungry, and when I prayed 
And the Virgin did not come, I thought 
Perhaps if I send her a letter, why — " 

He paused, but old Pierre said nought. 
There was something new in the old man's throat, 
And something strange in the old man's eye ; 
At length he took up his pen and wrote. 



32 SONGS. 



Long it took him to write and fold 

And seal with a hand that was far from bold ; 

Then : " Courage, small comrade, wait and see ; 

Your letter is mailed, and presently 

An answer will come, perhaps to me. 

I will open my desk. Behold, 't is there ! 
' From Heaven,' it says, ' a M'sieu Pierre.' 
You do not read ? N'importe. / do. 
'T is a letter from Heaven, and all about you, 
And, what ? * Mamma is in Heaven, too. 
And her little boy must be brave and good 
And live with Pierre.' That 's understood. 
While Pierre has a crust or sou to spare. 
There 's enough for him and thee, mon cher." 

Do you think that letter came from above 

Freighted with God's and a mother's love ? 

The child at least believed it true. 

So, at the last, Pierre did too, 

When the heavenly mail came once again, 

To a grim old man on a bed of pain, 

Whose dying eyes alone could see, 

And read the missive joyfully. 

He knew the Hand, and proudly smiled, 

For it was as the hand of a little child. 





EDELWEISS. 

lAIR and far is the mountain crest, 
In the summer skies a-glowing ; 
Safe and sweet is the hither side, 
Where the bees and the sweet-breathed kine abide, 

And the soft south wind is blowing. 
Maiden true, with your hand in mine, 
I look to the heights untrod, divine. 
Where the perfect flower is growing. 

Did I lose the good when I sought the best? 

Loving you past all measure. 
Could I choose but say. My love, I love ? 
Be it mine to say, be it yours to prove 

Me worthy of love's dear treasure — 
For I have climbed the heights divine, 
Hoping and fearing, to wait the sign 

Of your love or your displeasure. 





SELF-RIGHTEOUS. 

O HAMMED prayed, when pious Hassan fell 
In battle vanquished by the infidel, 
That God might stay the hand of Azrael 



The Pitiless, who right nor mercy knew : 

*' O Allah ! Is it well that we, so few 

And weak, should fail, who have thy work to do ? 

" The world and Eblis triumph over Thine, 
While weaker grow our dying hopes, and mine 
Are all but dead. O Allah ! Grant a sign ! " 

Then straightway was unsmiling Azrael sent. 
And stood before the weary Prophet's tent : 
" Thy prayer is granted — for thy punishment. 

'• O'er Islam's hosts the keys of life are thine — 
For lo ! thy wisdom doth excel Divine — 
Watch that thy hand be merciful as mine." 

When next they met the foeman on the field 

The sword of Azrael was Islam's shield. 

And Death rejoiced to reap a bounteous yield. 



SELF-RIGHTEOUS. 3 5 

Great was the joy at first : with prayer and fast 
And humble thanks to Allah's mercy, passed 
Each day of victory ; but at the last, 

Grown turbulent and proud with quick-won power 

And evil lusts, its ever fatal dower, 

The poison weeds of sin began to flower ; 

And when the Prophet would have stemmed the tide 

Of fatal luxury, they him defied : 

" Allah is with us ! Let the dotard chide." 

Blaspheming some more impiously said : 
" With us or not, we neither know nor dread 
This God disarmed. Azrael is dead ! " 

Once more with troubled soul Mohammed prayed 
That God might send another sign to aid. 
The answer came, — with it a Moslem blade. 

Clutched in the hand of one he loved too well, 
A parricide in heart and child of hell ; 
But Azrael smote him, and the traitor fell. 

Mohammed then his impious wish deplored, 
And Allah pitying gave back his sword 
To Azrael, who wisely served his Lord. 




SERGEANT MOLLY. 

jHE snows were melted from Valley Forge ; 
The blood was drunk by the sodden 
clay; 

And, counting the score against King George, 
They sharpened their swords for Monmouth day. 

But the devil may take the caitiff Lee ! 

In the front of battle his courage quailed. 
And the lions leaping to victory 

Fell back when their leader's hare-heart failed. 

Till the Chieftain came with his face aflame, 

And an angry hand on a ready hilt, 
Halting the mob with a taunt of shame. 

And a hot, fierce curse on the traitor's guilt. 

So we see him now in his godlike wrath. 

Firing the souls of meaner men. 
Standing athwart the coward's path. 

And driving the victor back again. 

And once again when, the battle won. 

And the beaten foe in ignoble flight. 
He calls for the soldier who served the gun 

In Wayne's brigade on the bloody right. 



SERGEANT MOLLY. 37 

How the soldiers cheer, in their comrade pride, 
As a woman steps from the cannoneers, 

And her manding blushes fail to hide 
The smoke of battle and stain of tears. 

She is only a soldier's Irish wife ; 

But yesterday, when the fight went hard. 
The hot heart's blood of her soldier's life 

Made a pool by his gun on Monmouth sward. 

And the captain turned away his head, — 
" Take out of the battle the idle gun ; 

There 's no one to serve it now," he said : 

But a white-faced woman cried, " Yes, there 's 
one." 

And all day long, through the fire and smoke. 
And the din of battle and bullets' hum, 

The battery's thunderous voice outspoke. 
And Pitcher's cannon was never dumb. 

Powder-stained is the brown hand yet. 

As the Chieftain holds it and speaks his thanks ; 

And "Sergeant Molly," by his brevet. 
Goes proudly back to the cheering ranks. 




THE GRAVE OF CAPTAIN HALL. 



HE day was night, and the night was day, 
And the earth was cold and drear ; 
An iceberg nigh loomed ghostly high 
O'er a funeral train and bier. 



The starry flag hung half-mast high, 

While the kindly stars above 
In the night-in-day looked down alway 

With a distant, helpless love. 

God's sun was dead so long ago 

We lived in endless night, 
But the sad far stars gazed through the bars 

Of the weird Boreal light. 

The Polar blast swept o'er a plain 

As smooth as the waveless sea, 
Like a voiceless breath from the lips of Death, 

So fiercely, silently. 

We scooped his grave in the iron earth 

Of the ever frozen zone ; 
And the strong man lay with his kindred clay, 

As cold and dead and lone. 



THE GRA VE OF CAPTAIN HALL. 39 

No choir may sing his requiem, 

No shaft may mark his tomb ; 
Go place his name on the roll of fame, 

Where the brave find ever room. 

Though flowers deck not the distant grave, 

Nor tears bedew its turf. 
We hear his dirge in the solemn surge 

Of the ever sounding surf. 





CHARLES DICKENS. 

^EAR the voice of Christmas Present — 
Heavenly speech in mortal tongue 
Childhood's lips translating paeans 
By its fellow-cherubs sung. 

He that read aright the language 

Held communion with Above, 
Standing near to God and childhood 

In democracy of love ; 

Winning weary hearts to gladness, 

From the world's harsh pain and care ; 

Bearing hope and joy to sadness ; 
Teaching patience to despair. 



Breathe his name in nought of sorrow. 
Mourn him not as of the dead. 

Though the gentle master's spirit 
From a loving world hath fled. 

Earth can claim but earthly ashes, 
Not the spirit Heaven gave ; 

For the heart, a world embracing. 
All too narrow is the grave. 



CHARLES DICKENS. 4 1 



. " 



If in battling wrong to conquer, 
Ever on the weaker side, — 

If to dwell in hearts unnumbered, 
Be to live, — he hath not died. 

Pure apostle of the mission 

Of the '•' Peace on earth to men ; 

Rare expounder of Christ-loving 
Was his love-compelling pen. 



In the light of Christmas Present 
Be the master's mission seen ; 

And for that he loved his brother 
God will " keep his memory green." 




^♦ffi 



K 




WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME. 

YOUNG man stood by the summer sea, 

In the flush of the rising sun, 
And the wavelets gleamed as the light down 
streamed. 
Gilding them one by one. 

Over the waves with the tips of gold, 

At the sun and the shining sea. 
Like an eagle, he gazed, with eye undazed, 

And a soul all young and free. 

" Youth and the world are mine ! " he cried ; 

" Honor and hope and love. 
Calm as the sea is my life to me. 

And bright as the skies above. 

" And the blue-eyed lass with the golden hair, 

Who has given her heart to me, — 
Ah ! she will be mine with her love divine. 

When my ship comes over the sea." 



WHEN MY SHIP COMES HOME. 43 

An old man stood on a barren beach, 

Shading liis haggard eyes 
With a hand that shook, while his weary look 

Went from earth to sea and skies. 

And never a one to pity him 

Of all the friends of his youth ; 
For Hope was dead, and there lived instead 

The sinister lesson. Truth. 

And the gold-haired lass that had looked on him 

With her eyes of heavenly blue. 
Had gone, with his fame and riches and name, 

As blue-eyed goddesses do. 

Haggard and broken his shadow fell. 

Clouding the laughing foam ; 
Wrecked in the strife and storm of life, 

His ship had never come home. 





SPOTS ON THE SUN. 

A FABLE. 

|N a far fair land, in the early days, 
Ere a purer faith was born, 
Men simple-souled and of artless ways 
Knelt down to the sun, and their song of praise 
Was lifted to him each mom. 

For they saw, as the days did come and go, 

That he loved the sons of men, — 
That for them he had taught the corn to grow, 
The fruits to ripen, and flowers to blow, 

And Earth to conceive again. 

But a wise man came, with his soulless creed, 

Narrow and hard and cold, — 
He had weighed their sun, and measured his speed, 
And reckoned his years to a day, indeed, — 

And he scoffed at the faith of old. 

He made him a lens of the crystal glass. 

And steadily bent his gaze. 
"There are spots on the sun," he cried. "Alas 
For your god ! he is all one murky mass. 

Where now be his glorious rays?" 



SPOTS ON THE SUN, 



45 



But the simple people made answer none : 

They saw in the wise man's eyes 
That the centred rays of the angry sun 
Had smitten him bUnd ; and they knew no one 

Is so simple as the wise. 






THE SONG OF THE SEA. 

|ROM the noisome garrets and cellars, 

From the kennels and dens of shame, 
The city's wild cavern-dwellers 
One day into sunlight came ; 
For a magic singer had found him 

A song with a new refrain, 
And the outcasts thronged around him 
And took up the mighty strain. — 
Aux armeSy aux armes, Citoyens ! 
For77iez, forniez vos bataillons ! 
Marchons, marchons, qu'un sang impur abreuve 
710S sillons ! 

He had lain on the rocky shingle 

By the rim of the sounding sea, 
Where the warring voices mingle 

And melt into harmony ; 
And he listed the note that lingers 

In eternal monotone, 
When the sea with his strong white fingers 

Beats on the keys of stone. 



THE SONG OF THE SEA. 47 



Breakers twain, and another, 

And the third is a vengeful cry ; 
Ever the same, nor other 

Shall be till the seas be dry : 
The first bids the slave awaken ; 

The next is a call to fight ; 
The thrones at the third are shaken, 

And the People is king by right. 

The gilded court's shrill babble 

Was stilled when the dumb ones spoke, 
And the grand, sad, patient rabble 

From its sleeping ages woke. 
Then the wrongs that were built of granite 

Were weak as a lie laid bare ; 
No room for wrong on the planet 

When Oppression begets Despair. 

Ah ! new bastiles have been builded. 

And tyranny grows again, 
But the freedom-song that thrilled it 
Dies not from the heart of men ; 
For prisons will crumble under 

The spell of a magic word, 
And fetters shall fall asunder 

When the Song of the Sea is heard. — 
Aux armes, aux armes, Citoyens I 
FormeZjformez vos bataillons ! 
Marchons, marchons, qu'un sang impur ahreuve 
nos sillons ! 




BABYLON. 

ER robes are of purple and scarlet, 

And the kings have bent their knees 
To the gemmed and jewelled harlot 
Who sitteth on many seas. 

They have drunk the abominations 

Of her golden cup of shame ; 
She has drugged and debauched the nations 

With the mystery of her name. 

Her merchants have gathered riches 
By the power of her wantonness, 

And her usurers are as leeches 
On the world's supreme distress. 

She has scoured the seas as a spoiler ; 

Her mart is a robbers' den. 
With the wrested toll of the toiler, 

And the mortgaged souls of men. 

Her crimson flag is flying, 

Where the East and the West are one ; 
Her drums while the day is dying 

Salute the rising sun. 



BABYLON. 



49 



She has scourged the weak and the lowly 
And the just with an iron rod ; 

She is drunk with the blood of the holy, — 
She shall drink of the wrath of God ! 





THE FLAG. 

AN INCIDENT OF STRAIN'S EXPEDITION. 

NEVER have got the bearings quite, 
Though I 've followed the course for many 
a year, 
If he was crazy, clean outright. 

Or only what you might say was ^* queer." 

He was just a simple sailor man. 

I mind it as well as yisterday. 
When we messed aboard of the old " Cyane." 

Lord ! how the time does slip away ! 
That was five and thirty year ago, 

When ships was ships and men was men, 
And sailors was n't afraid to stow 

Themselves on a Yankee vessel then. 
He was only a sort of bosun's mate, 

But every inch of him taut and trim ; 
Stars and anchors and togs of state 

Tailors don't build for the like of him. 
He flew a no-account sort of name, 

A reg'lar fo'cas'le '' Jim " or " Jack," 



THE FLAG. 5 I 



With a plain " McGinnis " abaft the same, 

Giner'ly reefed to simple " Mack." 
Mack, we allowed, was sorter queer, — 

Ballast or compass was n't right. 
Till he licked four Juicers one day, a fear 

Prevailed that he had n't larned to fight. 
But I reckon the Captain knowed his man, 

When he put the flag in his hand the day 
That we went ashore from the old " Cyane," 

On a madman's cruise for Darien Bay. 

Forty days in the wilderness 

We toiled and suffered and starved with Strain, 
Losing the number of many a mess 

In the Devil's swamps of the Spanish Main. 
All of us starved, and many died. 

One laid down, in his dull despair ; 
His stronger messmate went to his side — 

We left them both in the jungle there. 
It was hard to part with shipmates so ; 

But standing by would have done no good. 
We heard them moaning all day, so slow 

We dragged along through the weary wood. 
McGinnis, he suffered the worst of all ; 

Not that he ever piped his eye 
Or would n't have answered to the call 

If they'd sounded it for "All hands to die." 
I guess 't would have sounded for him before. 

But the grit inside of him kept him strong, 
Till we met relief on the river shore ; 

And we all broke down when it came along. 



52 SOJVGS. 



All but McGinnis. Gaunt and tall, 

Touching his hat, and standing square : 
" Captain, the Flag." . . . And that was all ; 

He just keeled over and foundered there. 
" The Flag? " We thought he had lost his head 

It might n't be much to lose at best — 
Till we came, by-and-by, to dig his bed. 

And we found it folded around his breast. 
He laid so calm and smiling there. 

With the flag wrapped tight around his heart ; 
Maybe he saw his course all fair. 

Only — we could n't read the chart. 





MY COMRADE. 

IHE love of man and woman is as fire, 
To warm, to light, but surely to consume 
And self-consuming die. There is no room 
For constancy and passionate desire. 
We stand at last beside a wasted pyre, 
Touch its dead embers, groping in the gloom ; 
And where an altar stood, erect a tomb, 
And sing a requiem to a broken lyre. 
But comrade-love is as a welding blast 
Of candid flame and ardent temperature : 
Glowing most fervent, it doth bind more fast ; 
And melting both, but makes the union sure. 
The dross alone is burnt — till at the last 
The steel, if cold, is one, and strong and pure. 





ANDROMEDA. 

|HEY chained her fair young body to the 
cold and cruel stone ; 
The beast begot of sea and slime had 
marked her for his own; 
The callous world beheld the wrong, and left her 

there alone. 
Base caitiffs who belied her, false kinsmen who 
denied her, 

Ye left her there alone ! 

My Beautiful, they left thee in thy peril and thy 

pain ; 
The night that hath no morrow was brooding on 

the main : 
But lo ! a light is breaking of hope for thee again ; 
'T is Perseus' sword a-flaming, thy dawn of day 

proclaiming 

Across the western main. 
O Ireland ! O my country ! he comes to break thy 

chain ! 




PARTANT POUR LA SYRIE. 

OR Syrian fields preparing, 
Dunois the young and bold, 
While trumpet-calls were blaring 
And drums impatient rolled, 

Two boons the best and rarest 
At Mary's shrine implored : 
" To love the maiden fairest. 
To bear the bravest sword ! " 

True faith outvalues daring ; 

Dunois was sword and shield, 

His liege's banner bearing 

On many a bloody field. 

Still faithful, fearless, prayed he, 
In camp or march or fight : 
" Be mine the fairest lady, 
Be hers the bravest knight ! " 

" And now we are victorious, 
Dunois," declared his lord ; 
*' By thee my name is glorious, 
And this be thy reward : 



56 



SONGS. 



My daughter Isabella 
Straightway her love shall plight ; 
The fairest damozella 
To match the bravest knight ! " 

At Mary's altar kneeling 
They pledged their vows of love, 
While wedding-bells were pealing 
A blessing from above. 

" Be love and fame their dower ! '' 
All cried out in delight ; 
" For she is beauty's flower, 
And he the bravest knight ! " 




THE GOSPEL OF PEACE. 

SANTIAGO DE CUBA, NOV. 7, 1 8 73. 



'', let it rest ! And give us peace. 
'T is but another blot 
On Freedom's fustian flag, and gold 



Will gild the unclean spot. 

Yes, fold the hands, and bear the wrong 

As Christians over-meek. 
And wipe away the bloody stain. 

And turn the other cheek. 

What boots the loss of freemen's blood 

Beside imperilled gold ? 
Is honor more than merchandise ? 

And cannot pride be sold ? 

Let Cuba groan, let patriots fall ; 

Americans may die ; 
Our flag may droop in foul disgrace. 

But " Peace ! " be still our cry. 



58 SONGS. 



Ay, give us peace ! And give us truth 

To nature, to resign 
The counterfeit which Freedom wears 

Upon her banner fine. 

Remove the Stars, — they light our shame ; 

But keep the Stripes of gore 
And craven White, to tell the wrong 

A prudent nation bore. 




* 





THE SKELETON AT THE FEAST. 

IN MEMORIAM G. F. R., DEC. 30, 1 885. 

E summoned not the Silent Guest, 
And no man spake his name : 
By lips unseen our Cup was pressed, 
And 'mid the merry song and jest, 
The Uninvited came. 

Wise were they in the days of old, 

Who gave the Stranger place ; 
And when the joyous catch was trolled. 
And toasts were quaffed and tales were told. 

They looked him in the face. 

God save us from the skeleton 

Who sitteth at the feast ! 
God rest the manly spirit gone, 
Who sat beside the Silent One, 

And dreaded him the least 1 



SATIRES 




SATIRES. 




THE V-A-S-E. 

ROM the madding crowd they stand apart, 
The maidens four and the Work of Art ; 



And none might tell from sight alone 
In which had Culture ripest grown, — 

The Gotham Million fair to see. 
The Philadelphia Pedigree, 

The Boston Mind of azure hue. 

Or the soulful Soul from Kalamazoo, — 

For all loved Art in a seemly way, 
With an earnest soul and a capital A. 

Long they worshipped ; but no one broke 
The sacred stillness, until up spoke 



64 -5-^ TIRES. 



The Western one from the nameless place, 
Who blushing said : " What a lovely vace ! " 

Over three faces a sad smile flew, 
And they edged away from Kalamazoo. 

But Gotham's haughty soul was stirred 
To crush the stranger with one small word. 

Deftly hiding reproof in praise, 

She cries : '"T is, indeed, a lovely vaze ! " 

But brief her unworthy triumph when 
The lofty one from the home of Penn, 

With the consciousness of two grandpapas, 
Exclaims : " It is quite a lovely vahs ! " 

And glances round with an anxious thrill, 
Awaiting the word of Beacon Hill. 

But the Boston maid smiles courteouslee 
And gently murmurs : " Oh, pardon me ! 

" I did not catch your remark, because 

I was so entranced with that charming vaws ! " 

Dies erit prcegelida 
Sinistra quum Bostonia. 



A SAILOR'S YARN. 



HIS is the tale that was told to me 
By a battered and shattered son of the sea, 
To me and my messmate, Silas Green, 
When I was a guileless young marine. 




'T was the good ship Gyascutus, 

All in the China seas, 
With the wind a-lee and the capstan free 

To catch the summer breeze. 

'T was Captain Porgie on the deck, 
To his mate in the mizzen hatch, 

While the boatswain bold, in the forward hold. 
Was winding his larboard watch. 



Oh, how does our good ship head to-night? 

How heads our gallant craft? " 
Oh, she heads to the E. S. W. by N., 

And the binnacle lies abaft ! " 
5 



66 SA TIRES. 



" Oh, what does the quadrant indicate, 
And how does the sextant stand? " 

" Oh, the sextant 's down to the freezing-point, 
And the quadrant 's lost a hand ! " 

" Oh, and if the quadrant has lost a hand 

And the sextant falls so low. 
It 's our bodies and bones to Davy Jones 

This night are bound to go ! 

" Oh, fly aloft to the garboard strake ! 

And reef the spanker boom ; 
Bend a studding-sail on the martingale, 

To give her weather room. 

" O boatswain, down in the for'ard hold, 

What water do you find? " 
" Four foot and a half by the royal gaff 

And rather more behind ! " 



" O sailors, collar your marline spikes 

And each belaying-pin ; 
Come stir your stumps and spike the pumps, 

Or more will be coming in ! " 

They stirred their stumps, they spiked the pumps. 

They spliced the mizzen brace ; 
Aloft and alow they worked, but oh ! 

The water gained apace. 



A SAILOR'S YARN. 6/ 

They bored a hole above the keel 

To let the water out ; 
But, strange to say, to their dismay, 

The water in did spout. 

Then up spoke the Cook of our gallant ship, 

And he was a lubber brave : 
" I have several wives in various ports. 

And my life I 'd orter save." 

Then up spoke the Captain of Marines, 

Who dearly loved his prog : 
" It 's awful to die, and it 's worse to be dry. 

And I move we pipes to grog." 

Oh, then 't was the noble second mate 

What filled them all with awe ; 
The second mate, as bad men hate, 

And cruel skippers jaw. 

He took the anchor on his back 

And leaped into the main ; 
Through foam and spray he clove his way, 

And sunk and rose again ! 

Through foam and spray, a league away 

The anchor stout he bore ; 
Till, safe at last, he made it fast 

And warped the ship ashore ! 



68 SA TIRES. 

'T ain't much of a job to talk about, 
But a ticklish thing to see, 

And suth'in to do, if I say it, too, 
For that second mate was me ! 



Such was the tale that was told to me 
By that modest and truthful son of the sea ; 
And I envy the life of a second mate, 
Though captains curse him and sailors hate, 
For he ain't like some of the swabs I 've seen, 
As would go and lie to a poor marine. 





A CONCORD LOVE-SONG. 

HALL we meet again, love, 
In the distant When, love. 
When the Now is Then, love, 
And the Present Past ? 
Shall the mystic Yonder, 
On which I ponder, 
I sadly wonder. 
With thee be cast? 

Ah, the joyless fleeting 
Of our primal meeting, 
And the fateful greeting 

Of the How and Why ! 
Ah, the Thingness flying 
From the Hereness, sighing 
For a love undying 

That fain would die ! 

Ah, the Ifness sadd'ning. 
The Whichness madd'ning, 
And the But ungladd'ning. 
That lie behind ! 



70 



SA TIRES. 



When the signless token 
Of love is broken 
In the speech unspoken 
Of mind to mind ! 

But the mind perceiveth 
When the spirit grieveth, 
And the heart relieveth 

Itself of woe ; 
And the doubt-mists lifted 
From the eyes love-gifted 
Are rent and rifted 

In the warmer glow. 

In the inner Me, love, 
As I turn to thee, love, 
I seem to see, love, 

No Ego there. 
But the Meness dead, love, 
The Theeness fled, love. 
And born instead, love, 

An Usness rare ! 




FROZEN OUT. 

A TALE OF THE NICARAGUA CANAL, A.D. 19- 




|OME hither, Uttle Britisher, and listen while 
I tell 
About the great climatic change that long 
ago befell. 
Take off your little Arctic shoes, hang up your 

reindeer hood, 
And you shall have some blubber pie if you be nice 
and good. 

'T was in the old and wicked days your Uncle Sam 

began 
To dig his great canal beside the river San Juan ; 
And when they saw him work so hard and get along 

so slow, 
The foreign nations laughed ha ! ha ! and eke they 

laughed ho ! ho ! 

But when the work was done at last, and he began 

to build 
His mighty forts on either side, with anger they 

were filled. 
They met in hasty conference one morning at Berlin, 
The very day that he had fixed to let the water in. 



72 SA TIRES. 



And as the water and the talk did siaiultaneous flow, 
The Caribbean Sea ran dry and the Gulf of Mexico. 
The great Gulf Stream which used to wash and 

warm all Europe free 
Was siphoned through the new canal into the 

Southern Sea. 

Next day a little Cablegram covered with ice and 

snow 
Came staggering over to Sandy Hook, and this its 

tale of woe : 
A wave of more than Arctic cold had suddenly ariz, 
In spite of grammar or precedent, and the whole of 

Europe friz. 

And every port was blocked with ice, and every 

town with snow ; 
You could travel on skates from Liverpool to the 

Bay of Biscay O. 
The savans all were at loggerheads the reason to 

unfold ; ' 

For some maintained it was lack of heat, others 

excess of cold. 

" Whatever the cause," said the Cablegram, kicking 

its frozen heels, 
" Europe for sympathy and help to its Uncle Sam 

appeals." 
"The reason is plain," said Uncle Sam, and he 

winked his aged eye ; 
"You've neglected to pay your water rates, and 

I Ve cut ofl" the supply." 



FROZEN OUT. 



7Z 



He laughed ha ! ha ! and he lauglied ho ! ho ! did 

wily Uncle Sam, 
As he sent in his little bill of costs by the little 

Cablegram. 
The air of Europe was black that day with blasphemy 

and sin, 
But the nations did as we all must do when the 

plumber's bill comes in. 

^100,000,000,000 cash! and, oh! they roundly 

swore 
When they found the Gulf Stream did n't flow as it 

useter did before. 
It was a pious dodge, my child, to put down war 

and slaughter. 
For it made the nations keep the peace to keep 'em 

out of hot water. 





ENIGMA. 

AM hot ; I am cold ; 

I am craven and bold ; 

I am youthful and old, 
And middle-aged too ; 
I am living and dead, 
I 've no body or head, 
And my color is red, 
Orange, yellow, green, blue. 

I 've no trunk and no limb, 
Yet can fly, walk, or swim. 
Or across the seas skim 
Like a free ocean bird. 
Though a bodiless sprite. 
Yet by day or by night 
I 'm in every one's sight 
And by every one heard. 

I am ten cubits high 
But can crawl through the eye 
Of a needle, though nigh 
Twenty thousand miles broad. 



ENIGMA. 75 



I 'm an unheard-of stone 
That is very well known, 
And my substance alone 
By an iceberg is thawed. 

I shine in the sky, 
And in caverns lie, 
And no mortal man's eye 
Hath my form e'er seen. 
I lived at earth's dawn 
And expire each morn. 
Though but yesterday born 
And aged nineteen. 






IF. 

H, if the world were mine, Love, 
I 'd give the world for thee ! 
Alas ! there is no sign, Love, 
Of that contingency. 



Were I a king — which isn't 

To be considered now — 
A diadem had glistened 

Upon thy lovely brow. 

Had Fame with laurels cro^vned me, - 

She has n't up to date, — 
Nor time nor change had found me 

To love and thee ingrate. 

If Death threw down his gage. Love, 
Though life is dear to me, 

I 'd die, e'en of old age, Love, 
To win a smile from thee. 

But being poor we part, Dear, 
And love, sweet love, must die — 

Thou wilt not break thy heart, Dear ; 
No more I think, shall I. 




A TITLE CLEAR. 

AYBE it was the Sunday fare ; 
Maybe the Sunday sermon ; 
Perhaps 't was but a plain nightmare 
I never can determine. 



I dreamed I was an errant shade, 
With other shadows hieing 

Along a road whose downward grade 
Was simply terrifying. 

Before them all, with haughty head. 
One held the chief position, 

Whose lofty mien and stately tread 
Proclaimed his high condition. 

While in the eyes of all the rest 

Sat trouble and dejection, 
His gold-rimmed orbs alone expressed 

Approving introspection. 

We reached a river and embarked 

Upon a galley gloomy ; 
The seat the stranger took, I marked, 

Was elegant and roomy. 



78 SA TIRES. 



When Charon came to punch his fare, 

The awe-inspiring spectre 
Transfixed him with a stony stare, 

And seemed to say, " Director." 

We reached at length the heavenly gate 
The press had free admissions — 

The common herd was forced to wait 
And loaded with conditions. 

The stranger handed in his card, 
While round the door we hovered, 

And to the high celestial guard 
His shapely head uncovered. 

I saw St. Peter smile and bow, 

Urbane and deferential ; 
The stranger's greeting was somehow 

A shade more consequential. 

" Angel ! " the saintly tyler cried, 
A page straightway appearing. 

(I don't remember that I tried 
To wholly keep from hearing.) 

I caught the words " Orchestra chair — 
Be sure you get the right one — 

See the harp-tuner ; and take care 
The halo is a bright one. 



A TITLE CLEAR. 79 

" Look lively, too," St. Peter said, 

"The gentleman is waiting." 
" Please register " — he bent his head, 

The great book indicating. 

The stranger wrote. I read the scrawl 

The sacred page engrossed on ; 
The name was nought, the place was all, — 

"J. Winthrop Wiggins, Boston." 




* 



THE PREADAMITE. 

^^O, for a rhyme of the good old time, 
I^U Ere Adam or Eve was born, 
*^^^ When the saurian slept in the sluggish 
slime 

With the unique unicorn. 
When the mermaid smiled on the mammoth mild, 

And the dodo sang her lay. 
And the behemoth breasted the billows wild 

With the plesiosaurus gay. 

Oh, a happy wight was the Preadamite ! 

He basked in the griffin's smile, 
Or followed the dragon's sportive flight, 

Or wept with the crocodile. 
An omelet made of the roc's egg stayed 

His appetite so rare, 
While whale on toast and wakus roast 

Were his steady bill of fare. 

No hotel bills or doctor's pills 

Impaired his appetite ; 
He laughed at gout with his stomach stout, 

And kept his molars bright. 



THE PREADAMITE. 



Ho, a tear and a sigh for the days gone by, 
And a dirge for the doughty dead ! 

Let the sea-serpent shuffle his coil and die. 
For the good old days are sped. 





TO T. D. 

E 're growing old, my comrade true ; 
We 've fallen on autumn weather ; 
The skies that smiled so long on us, 
The sun that shone so strong on us. 
Are darkening together. 

We loved the sun and sea and sky, 

And idleness and folly ; 
Life never was too bright for us. 
Sun never shone too light for us, 

We knew not melancholy. 

Thou camest to me so virgin white. 

No lips but mine e'er pressing ; 
I loved thee then as dear as now, 
I found thee aye sincere as now. 
As warm, as sweet caressing. 

But ah ! the fire was in thy breast 

Is waxing colder, dimmer ; 
The light that once could brighten me 
Now pales enough to frighten me 

With its expiring glimmer. 



TO T. D. 

Thou wert as dear as nearer friends, 

And truer to the end ; 
When love hath smiled and lied to me, 
And fortune falsely cried to me. 

Thou wert mine only friend. 

Thou art not of the race of man, 

But other, nobler clay. 
I bought thee for two copper sous, 
And having served my proper use, 

I throw thee thus away. 





THE SPECTRE MULETEER. 

(after hood.) 

OHN MAULER was a gondolier 
On Erie's verdant shore ; 
His walk was humble, but his gait 
Was something to adore. 



The locksman's lovely daughter had 

For him a passion strong, 
And though she was quite short and small 

He vowed he loved her long. 

Love's course is often sweet and mild, 

And like the limpid wave 
Of calm canals, whose rippling tides 

Their soft embankments lave. 

But crosses come, as freshets do, 

And cruel sires there be, 
Unfeeling guardians whose wards 

Are always under key. 



THE SPECTRE MULETEER. 85 



rh 



Her father's haughty castle stood 

Beside the fair Mohawk ; 
He did n't lock her in the keep, 

But kept her in the lock. 

" Think not to wed a driver low ! 

Thou art too rare a prize ; 
Canalers to canaille may stoop, 

But not to wed-lock rise." 

So spake her parent scornfully ; 

The maiden heard in fear. 
And when he laughed his horsey lauj 

She dropped her muleteer. 

" Oh, Sarah Jane ! " her lover cried, 
" My honest love you scorn, 

And since you 've given me the sack, 
I '11 take it in a horn." 



John Mauler's manly heart grew weak, 
For gin and grief soon shook it ; 

And when his mule kicked in his side. 
He sighed and kicked the bucket. 

The lovely maiden pined away, 
And said, with many a tear, 

" Although he 's gone before, I 'U stay 
And be his pioneer." 



86 SA TIRES. 



The locksman lives a changed man, 

With sorrow in his eyes ; 
For every night his hair turns white, 

And every morn he dyes. 

For in the hour when Nature sleeps 
And bargemen blithely swear, 

A grim procession wakens him 
And elevates his hair. 

A ghostly barge, a spectre mule, 

A phantom driver grim, 
Beside the haunted lock are seen 

To pass an hour with him. 

Their purpose is a paradox 
To make the blood run cold ; 

For though they go without a word 
They 're waiting to be tolled. 

And then the spectre barge departs 

Along the sluggish pool, 
Beside a fleshless driver and 

Behind a bloodless mule, 

Past Syracuse and Utica, 

And Ihon's ancient walls, 
And where the mighty Mohawk flows 

From Rome to Little Falls, 



THE SPECTRE MULETEER. 8/ 

Till boat and mule and driver fade 

Before the sun's bright face ; 
The very harness vanishes, 

Nor leaves a broken trace. 

But Richfield convalescents say 

That every morn they find 
Some extra sulphur in the springs, 

And brimstone in the wind. 





"SCHOOL KEEPS." 

jO you think it is " splendid to be a man 
And done with the books and school," my 
boy? 

Ah, but school keeps on after youth is gone, 
Under a harder rule, my boy. 

Our teacher's name is Experience ; 

His price of tuition is high, my boy. 

We can skip if we please, but he always sees. 

And lays it on till we cry, my boy. 

How long the term shall be for each 

We know nothing at all about, my boy ; 

The school is always open to teach. 

But the scholars keep dropping out, my boy. 

Some get prizes, and many blanks ; 
The prizes are mighty few, my boy. 
But the one most envied in all our ranks 
Would be quick to change with you, my boy ; 

Wisdom and wealth are prizes rare 
With which no one would dispense, my boy ; 
But the rich and the sage would swap for your age 
All of their dollars and sense, my boy. 



"SCHOOL KEEPSr 89 

Don't envy the great who rides in state 
Down the middle of Hfe's broad road, my boy ; 
The black imp, Care, is behind him there, 
And his steed carries double load, my boy. 

Old Vanderbillion, with fourteen cooks 
To see that his dinners are right, my boy, 
Would pitch cooks and wine to the dogs, to dine 
On a crust with your appetite, my boy. 

The sun is shining upon your face : 

Our shadows are all before, my boy ; 

And they lengthen out with our every pace — 

Soon they will fall no more, my boy. 

Harvest the sunshine in your heart. 
Gather its heat and light, my boy : 
You '11 want it all when the shadows fall, . 
And you feel the chill of night, my boy. 





THE DOLLAR OF OUR FATHERS. 

|ATHER, I 've heard our member cry 

For the " good old dollar " of days gone by, 
While the tear bedewed his massive cheek, 
And his faltering voice was sad and weak. 
Oh, what was that coin beloved of old ? — 
Was it heavy and bright and virgin gold ? 
Not much, 71 ly child. 

Then, was it of silver fair and bright, 
Round as the silver moon at night ? 
Did " we trust in God, 900 fine," 
And in Mr. Jones who owned the mine ? 
Was it milled and stamped in cunning style. 
And was eighty cents the size of its pile ? 
Scarcely, my child. 

Oh, was it of copper smooth and round, 
A hundred bung-downs weighing a pound, 
And some of 'em buttons, and some of 'em brass. 
That onto a blind man you might pass ? 
Were those the particular kind of brads 
That made up the dollar dear to our dads ? 
Not quite, 7ny child. 



THE DOLLAR OF OUR FATHERS. 9 1 

Then, was it the sweet shinplaster note, 
Upon which the wild-cat bankers dote ? 
Or was it a bill on a bank that bust 
Whenever you wanted to draw your dust ? 
And had it a discount of one per cent, 
Like a coupon, every mile it went? 
Well, no., my child. 

The dollar your member doats upon 

Is a dollar you never will see, my son : 

The dollar which pays all sorts of debts, 

And leaves a stake for election bets ; 

The dollar you pass when you hire a hack. 

And a dollar and a half in change comes back ; 

The dollar you flip and it comes down head 

Or tail, whichever you may have said ; 

The dollar that buys whatever you will, 

And is earned by steady sitting still, — 

The dollar pure and unsoiled by sweat 

Is the dollar they want " restored," you bet ! 

And if you would know whereof 't is made, 

Go ask of the india-rubber trade ; 

But if you inquire why it is styled 

" The Fathers' Dollar," 

You ^ve got me, child. 




WHAT THE TELEGRAPH SAID. 

AYLY the wind sings through the wires, 
Touching the chords with fingers Hght 
Singing of love and its sweet desires 
To the maid who Hstens with fond delight. 

Sadly it sways the trembling lines, 

Waking a plaintive song of woe ; 
Breaking a heart that wearily pines 

For the music of hope that was long ago. 

Singing to each a well-known strain 

Caught from the keynote in every mind : 

Oh, sings it for me of peace or pain, 

This harp that sways in the winter wind ? 

What message carries the lightning slave 
Over the mountains, under the sea ? 

And this the answer the ticker gave : 
" Wheat is quiet at 83 ! " 





THE FO'KS'LE. 

A REVELATION. 

N the dark and grimy galley 
Of a vessel from afar, 
Sits a pitiful impostor, 

Who is called a ^' Jolly Tar." 

In his dress and speech and manner 

He betrays a painful lack 
Of the stock characteristics 

Of the stage and novel " Jack." 

For he does n't speak the jargon 

So familiar on the stage. 
And forbears to hitch his trousers, 

With a reverence for age. 

His jacket is n't tarry. 

But of dubious glossy hue, 

And his pantaloons are loudish, 
Not an unpretending blue. 

No poetic, trim tarpaulin. 
But a cap of greasy prose. 

Hides his close-cut locks, and covers 
Both his eyes and half his nose. 



94 -S^ TIRES. 



And when I hail him " Shipmet ! " 
He does not reply " Belay," 

But he growls a salutation 
In his surly, salty way. 

He spins no naval yarn, 

And he sings no naval song, 

And his language is sententious, 
And sulphurous and strong. 

He grumbles at the hardships 

Of a life upon the blue ; 
He reviles the mate and captain 

And the boatswain and the crew. 

He has curses for the owners 
Of his thrice-accursed ships, 

With profanest recollections 
Of preceding cursed trips. 

He blasphemes about the "lobscouse" 
And the " plum duff" and the " prog 

And he mutters imprecations 
On the 'baccy and the grog. 

He is low and coarse and dirty, 

And is very, very far 
From my picturesque ideal 

Of the jolly Jack-a-Tar. 



THE FO'KS'LE. 95 



And I think of Susan's William, 
But I know they called him Bill, 

And of Kidd and Vanderdecken, 
Who is navigating still. 

And I 've doubts of solemn Bunsby, 
And of Cuttle sagely mild ; 

And I say, " A tar is tarnished. 
As a pitcher is defiled." 




# 




"DON'T." 

OUR eyes were made for laughter, 
Sorrow befits them not ; 
Would you be blithe hereafter, 
Avoid the lover's lot. 



The rose and lily blended 
Possess your cheeks so fair ; 

Care never was intended 
To leave his furrows there. 

Your heart was not created 

To fret itself away. 
Being unduly mated 

To common human clay. 

But hearts were made for loving • 
Confound philosophy ! 

Forget what I 've been proving, 
Sweet Phyllis, and love me. 





THE TWIN RELIC. 

|HE moral sense of Bitter Creek desires to be 
heard 
About the sad unpleasantness which re- 
cently occurred, 
Particularly as the world has been surprised and 

grieved 
By false reports through which it was maliciously 

deceived. 
If any Tenderfoot is moved to treat the case with 

levity, 
He will not find the exercise conducive to lon- 
gevity. 

Our marriage laws have always been the Creek's 

especial pride. 
Freedom in this as other things being our trusty 

guide. 
The hideous plague Polygamy had never stained 

our town ; 
The vaccine virtue of divorce sufficed to keep it 

down, 
Though some confusion thence ensued, producing 

a variety 
Of complications conjugal among our best 

society. 

7 



98 SA TIRES. 



The ribald sneer and thoughtless scoff, I grieve to 

say, were heard 
When Deacon Jones's seventh spouse became 

Judge Potter's third. 
But to my mind no fairer sight since Eden has 

been seen 
Than when the groom's three former wives were 

bridesmaids to Miss Green. 
'T was all too sweet to last. The Creek, in virtue 

wrapped and amity, 
Was drawing to a bobtail flush against a straight 

calamity. 

A citizen from down the Gulch one day the tidings 
bore, 

That Barbarism's tents were pitched outside our 
very door, — 

That on the ground which Christian sharps pro- 
spected long in vain, 

And even Chinamen had scraped in bootless quest 
of gain, 

A Mormon horde, with nigger-luck in all its blank 
exuberance. 

Had struck it rich and got on us the undisguised 
protuberance. 

It was too much, we said, and swore this scandal 

must not be ; 
Those diggings must and should be jumped for 

pure humanity. 



THE TWIN RELIC. 99 



To think and act, to draw and shoot, with Bitter 
Creek were one : 

We met in Pettingill's saloon, and each man brought 
his gun; 

Resolves to the above effect were read and passed 
unanimous. 

After we'd taken out and lynched a Httle pusil- 
lanimous 

And morbid cuss who voted " No," thinking by 

such a plan 
That he could trample on free speech, the holiest 

right of man. 
But ah ! alas for Bitter Creek, alas for earthly 

pride, 
When moral suasion does n't work and shot-guns 

are defied ! 
Our missionary labors failed with those degraded 

foreigners, 
Who proved remarkably well fixed to lay out work 

for coroners. 



Envenomed calumny has raised the cry that Bitter 

Creek 
Has shook its principles and taken water, so to 

speak. 
Because on sober second thought it was resolved 

to change 
Our marriage laws, conforming to conditions new 

and stransre. 



lOO SATIRES. 



Preponderating widowhood came forward unob- 
trusively 

But firmly, and arranged affairs to suit itself ex- 
clusively. 

A constitutional convention met, and thus de- 
clared : 

" That Mormonism's standard here should never 
be upreared ; 

That marriage sanctity remains, as it has been, 
the pride 

Of Bitter Creek; and that our laws be hereby 
modified 

As follows." This amendment then was passed 
without a negative, — 

"That simultaneous wedlock shall henceforth re- 
place consecutive." 





MY HATED RIVAL. 

HE takes his head upon her breast ; 
She kisses and caresses him ; 
She 's all unhappy and oppressed, 
If anything distresses him. 



She sings his praises to his face, 
Until he swells with vanity, 

But silent takes it, with the grace 
Of insolent inanity. 

He is n't witty, wise, nor fair ; 

His voice is not melodious ; 
His manners are beyond compare — 

Comparisons are odious. 

And yet I 'd take his visage grim 
And clumsy form, and pay for it 

Right royally, to be like him, — 
Thrice happy Dog ! — her favorite. 




AD LYDIAM. 

HERE'ER I wander near or far 
I see that winsome face ; 
By land or sea, by ship or car, 
It haunts me every place. 



And though I fly to solitude 

And be an anchoret. 
The lovely vision will intrude 

And smile upon me yet. 

Like good Saint Anthony, in shame 

I close my fevered eyes ; 
Her burning looks my heart inflame, 

And bid wild passion risCo 

Yet never in my life have I 

Wrought her or weal or woe, — 

Then, lovely Lydia P-nkh-m, why 
Dost thou pursue me so ? 





ON RE-READING T:^L^MAQUE. 

" Calypso could not console her self.'' 

PLACE thee back upon thy shelf. 

O Fenelon, how scant thy knowledge, 
Who seemed as Solomon himself . 
To me, a callow youth at college ! 



No need to say thou wert a priest ; 

No need to own that I am human ; 
Mine this advantage is — at least 

I Ve learned the alphabet of Woman. 

And yet but half the truth is told : 
I do thee wrong, sagacious Mentor, - 

Calypso could not be consoled 
Until another man was sent her ! 



University Press : John Wilson & Son, Cambridge. 



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HECKMAN 
BINDERY INC. |§ 

DEC 88 

N. MANCHESTER, 












